


Your Lips, My Lips

by mollydewinter



Category: One Piece
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Bondage, Breathplay, It's very light, Light Bondage, M/M, Marking, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Rivals to Lovers, misuse of haki, more old men in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29444220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollydewinter/pseuds/mollydewinter
Summary: Shanks never listens. The glaring and the sharp-tongued comments are like an aphrodisiac on him. Still, he needs to learn his lesson.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Dracule Mihawk
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	Your Lips, My Lips

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Happy Valentine's day to all hehe Here's my little gift y'all :D This is the second akataka one shot I've produced in a matter of a few days and I'm honestly impressed with myself lmao 
> 
> Not much to say here tbh everything is pretty much in the tags! Just two old men in love, enjoying each other's company, what more could anyone ask for? I had so much fun writing this and unless I'm given a definite answer, I can only dream about Mihawk lore.
> 
> If you liked it, please tell me your thoughts in the comments! Hope you enjoy :D

**Your Lips, My Lips**

  
The small island, for all its plainness, is a godsend. It’s filled to the brim with unremarkable inns and taverns, all crawling with all sorts of fellows wishing to spend a few days in complete serenity. With everything that’s been going on in the world, this place seems like a bubble of paradise, where one can truly be away from everyone and everything.

The inn is pretty much like every other around it. The room is a bit dingy, small and dusty, but at the moment it’s perfect. It’s the last place on earth one would expect to find a Warlord and an Emperor, much less on the same bed, in the same embrace. 

Shanks moves slowly, as he often does when he wants to tease. He loves taking things fast and rough. When he’s lazy like this, there’s always a higher purpose. Beneath him, Mihawk is silent as always, only letting out huffy little breaths and hushed moans. It won’t do. Shanks is starving for him, more than usual. He needs to hear his lover, savor him to the last bit until the only option left is to start over.

“C’mon, Hawkeyes,” he purrs. His lips close around one nipple and he tugs on it with his teeth, drawing a hiss out of Mihawk. Finally, a reaction. The dark-haired man jerks forward but he can’t move. His hands are tied above his head and no amount of glaring is going to convince Shanks to untie him. At times like this, Shanks thanks his captain - God bless his soul - for teaching him the extremely useful skill - art, even - of tying knots with only a couple of fingers and some good teeth. It came in extremely handy.

His tongue, hot and wet, trails a long line between Mihawk’s pectorals, going as far as his navel. He grazes his teeth over the pale skin while his hand remains at work between Mihawk’s thighs, stroking the flesh while pointedly ignoring his erection.

Lower and lower he goes, leaving behind a trail of bites and bruises. Mihawk always bruises so beautifully, The marks of Shanks’ forever yearning lips bloom purple and red on his pale skin, and Mihawk more than often hates it. Is it a subconscious effort from Shanks to get his man to cover up somehow? Perhaps. The sea is a vast place and Mihawk is arguably the prettiest out there, Shanks can be allowed some degree of greed.

He has to strain his ear to catch the little hiss Mihawk lets out. Shanks’ mouth has stopped right above his erection but he isn’t moving yet. Mihawk is always so sensitive there. Shanks watches as he spasms and shivers under his mouth. First, he grazes his teeth over the tender spot, then he rubs his stubbly cheek against it. Mihawk groans, pulling on his restraints. A word dies in his mouth, ending up being nothing but a huffy little whisper. 

“Didn’t quite catch that, toots. Mind repeating it?”

Shanks has no idea how he stopped himself from bursting in laughter. He musters only a smile, a grin that stretches from ear to ear as he watches his lover glaring daggers at him. For anyone else, it’s probably terrifying, but Shanks is used to it. Mihawk glares a lot - it’s his brand - but Shanks cannot think of it too much, seeing him blushing up to the tips of his ears, lips puffy from all the kissing, covered in bites and hickeys, tied up and spread wide for him. It’s a sight to behold, surely, and it’s for his eyes alone.

Mihawk grits his teeth. He shoves a foot in Shanks’ chest, pushing him back. “Hurry up,” he growls.

“Why? Got somewhere to be?”

Another push, slightly harder. Shanks gets the message. He’s already pushed his luck enough for a night by tying Mihawk up. He’d like to make it out of it alive, if possible.

Still, he obliges. To be honest, this has already taken more than he had expected and he’s actually proud of him. To be able to draw things out so long after months without seeing the other man, he really is getting older.

He kisses down the inside of Mihawk’s thigh, holding one bent leg over his shoulder. Their eyes meet and his gaze flicks over to his lover’s lips. His cock twitches at the mere sight of them, the thought of them wrapped around him, sucking him with fervor makes him even harder. He’s hovering a mere breath above Mihawk’s cock, blowing gently on the leaking head. Mihawk growls something but the words melt in his mouth as Shanks swallows him whole, taking him as far as he’s able to go. After decades spent worshipping this body, watching it grow and harden alongside his own, he knows it with his eyes closed. Its limits and its sensitivities, where the line between pleasure and pain lines. The tip hits the back of his throat and he slowly begins to move.

“Shanks,” Mihawk sighs. His back arches beautifully and Shanks places his hand on Mihawk’s hip, holding him down. His throat convulses around the length, taking it in even further.

He begins to move, slowly at first, setting a comfortable pace, though rough to make his lover even more flustered. Sex with Mihawk is all about delayed gratification. It takes special skill to make anything come out of his mouth, to make those golden eyes ooze with dark desire. 

As he pulls away, he wraps his lips around the tip, sucking on it like a piece of hard candy. He kisses down the entire length and licks his way up, before taking the other man back in his mouth. He bobs his head while his tongue moves furiously. Mihawk is thrusting up shallowly, meeting him halfway. The bed is shaking a little, the floorboards below them creak. 

“Shanks,” Mihawk pants. He sounds ruined. He is ruined, staring at Shanks through heavy lashes, taking in big breaths. “That’s enough.”

No, it’s not. It never will be. Shanks scoots closer, straddling Mihawk’s thigh as he presses their lengths together. He wraps his hand around them and begins to move. His tongue darts out of his mouth to collect a few drops of sweat that roll down the corner of his mouth. He jerks them lazily at first but quickly picks up the pace, tightening his grip. He knows he can’t make it, the night is too young to waste it on a handjob and Mihawk is simply too perfect to go unused. The friction is delicious, each snap of their hips makes him want to chase more. 

He stops, almost too abruptly, looking down at his breathless lover. “Get on with it,” Mihawk hisses.

Shanks sighs. Mihawk acts like the busiest man in the world and Shanks isn’t even sure what he does all day. He’s been especially finicky lately, wanting nothing more than to return to his gloomy paradise. Shanks suspects there’s something else going on there but he lets it be for later when he’s not about to have a hole glared through his skull.

He briefly leaves the bed, going to the nightstand to fetch the bottle of lube he brought along. Opening the cap and squirting some of the substance of his hand proves to be a difficult task but Shanks manages. He gives his fingers a thorough coating and inches closer, pushing Mihawk’s thighs apart with his knee. Mihawk lifts his hips, allowing Shanks easier access. He gives him a small nod and that’s all Shanks needs to continue. He presses his fingers, two at first, against his lover’s entrance, gently pushing them inside. Mihawk gasps and quickly bites his bottom lip in an attempt to silence himself. 

“Why do you always have to do this,” Shanks murmurs. The sound his fingers make as they move is absolutely filthy. He scissors the two fingers inside, stretching the other man out. “I want to hear you.”

Mihawk gasps and throws his head back. Shanks’ scowl deepens. There he goes again, hiding himself. As fucking hot as it is to watch him writhe and shiver like that, Shanks lives for every glance, every twitch of his perfectly sculpted lips. 

“Hawkeyes,” he moans. “Look at me.”

Shanks leans closer, nearly folding Mihawk in two. His mouth is wet and hot on his lover’s torso, his teeth are playful against the sensitive hip bones. His fingers are still at work, pressing against Mihawk’s sweet spot in a slow, torturous circle. 

“ _Ah!_ ”

The sound fills Shanks with glee. He pushes a third finger in, pressing even harder, wanting to hear more. He looks up, finding Mihawk’s gaze. His golden eyes make a beautiful contrast to his pale body that glows silver under the moonlight. They kiss, open-mouthed and sloppy, much like they did as hot-headed kids. 

Shanks pulls away. He removes his fingers and watches as Mihawk twitches at the filthy sound that makes. Shanks reaches for the lube again and pours it over his hard cock, coating it generously. Mihawk is watching intently, mouth slightly agape. He bites his lip and Shanks’ erection twitches. It’s a bit embarrassing, really, how after twenty years of their relationship (whatever one may call it) Shanks still loses it at the mere sight of his lover. Mihawk is a beautiful man, his beauty often overlooked because of his ability to be terrifying. But Shanks knows this side better than everyone. It was made by him, for him.

He aligns his erection to Mihawk’s stretched entrance and moves closer, finding a good angle. This position is a bit tricky, gone are the days of him grabbing Mihawk by the hips and fucking him into the bed. Still, he manages. Mihawk lifts one leg, helping Shanks use it for support. Slowly, Shanks pushes inside and he groans deeply, feeling the tight warmth swallow him to the hilt. As soon as he’s fully sheathed, he takes a moment to breathe, otherwise he’ll cum on the spot.

“Move, Red,” Mihawk snarls. 

Shanks is eager to please. He pulls his hips back, only keeping the tip inside. He finds a position comfortable enough and starts pistoning his hips, all languid and lazy, watching the fire in Mihawk’s eye grow more intense. Every thrust is drawn out, aiming at the other man’s prostate. The main reason why he tied Mihawks’ hands is to keep him from silencing himself and so far it’s working. Those ragged little breaths, the barely audible whispers of his name urge him to keep going.

“Harder,” Mihawk gasps. 

The bed is shaking with the force of their lovemaking, slamming rhythmically against the wall. Good thing the whole floor is empty. Mihawk clenches around Shanks’ erection as if to suck him in even to the last inch. He hooks his free leg around the man’s hips, keeping him closer, not letting him pull too far out. His own member is hard and leaking against his navel, twitching and begging for attention. 

“Touch me,” he demands. 

Shanks hooks Mihawk’s leg over his shoulder and grins as he kisses the strong calf. “Beg me for it,” he drawls.

Suddenly, the pale skin of Mihawk’s arms turns tar-black. Shanks is sure his eyes are about to shoot flames. Mihawk doesn’t need to say or do much else for Shanks to get the message loud and clear.

“Touch me.”

“Yes, sir.”

The redhead leans forward, pushing himself impossibly deeply within Mihawk. He lays his torso on top of Mihawk’s and squeezes his hand between their two bodies. He wraps his fingers around Mihawk’s cock and begins to stroke, trying to mimic the frenzied snapping of his hips. Mihawk’s pale skin is riddled with goosebumps. An unusually loud moan leaps from his mouth. His eyes roll so far back that Shanks can only see white. Shanks climbs higher, resting his forehead against Mihawk’s. Though their mouths aren’t touching, they are sharing the same hot, huffy breath. 

“You’re perfect,” Shanks mumbles in awe. “God, you’re the best.”

He tastes wine as he kisses Mihawk, the taste that seems to perpetually stick to his lover’s tongue. It’s familiar and comforting, the last piece of stability in a world that keeps on changing. They part, lips glossy with saliva. 

“Shanks-”

“I got you,” Shanks coos. “I got you, sweetheart.”

Mihawk arches his back as he climaxes, releasing into Shanks’ palm, with some ending up on his own body. He’s panting, spent and breathless, slowly coming down from the high of his orgasm. Shanks nuzzles his neck as he comes soon after, burying his cock as deep as deep goes, filling his lover to the brim. 

They stay like this for a while, trying to calm their rapidly beating hearts. They do well for old men, though time has clearly shown its teeth. Shanks feels absolutely boneless. Pulling out proves to be a damn feat but he manages, grinning at the trail of cum that leaks out of his lover’s puffy hole.

He rolls over, collapsing on the spot next to Mihawk. He turns his head to the side, meeting the golden gaze. He smiles. Sex with Mihawk only gets better with time and these secret meetings in no-name islands only make it more delectable. 

“Shanks.”

“Mhm?”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” To emphasize, Mihawk pulls on the rope still holding his wrists tied to the bed.

“Shit! Sorry.”

Shanks doesn’t have the brainpower to undo the knot so he reaches for the kogatana that hangs around Mihawk’s neck and cuts him free. Mihawk lowers his hands with a relieved sigh, giving his shoulders a few rolls. He groans as he rubs his sore wrists. They’re bright red, Shanks notes, chaffed and a little bloody. The little hypocrite could have used Haki to avoid the injuries but he’d much rather glare and call Shanks ‘shameless’ for doing this to him, as if he’s the one sailing around the world half-naked. 

“I still can’t believe you’re illiterate yet you know how to tie knots with your mouth,” Mihawk mumbles as he lays down on the bed right next to Shanks. This is probably the closest he can do to a compliment. “Who even taught you that?”

“Captain did,” Shanks replies with a smile.

Mihawk scoffs. “Of course.”

Shanks scoots closer, taking Mihawk into his embrace. Back to torso, they’re laying against one another. Shanks’ mouth is on Mihawk’s shoulder, ravishing him with lazy kisses. He smells good, even better now that he smells of him.

“You never liked him much, did you?” Mihawk snorts. It’s no secret that Mihawk never liked Roger. He didn’t hate him as a rival, just disliked him as a person. He was loud and chummy and every time he had a new, more ridiculous nickname for Mihawk. Shanks could remember the broody teenager as a guest at a banquet on the Oro Jackson, glaring Roger to death for dragging him out to the dance floor.

“He liked you a lot. Rayleigh, too.”

“Really?” 

“Mm. A man has to respect the sixteen-year-old that kicked his ass.” Shanks remembers that day like it was yesterday. The duel had taken place in front of the entire island, cocky bastard wanted them all to witness his victory. Shanks had never liked arrogant people but haughtiness fits Mihawk like a glove.

Coincidentally, that day, that duel, was when Shanks fell in love with that bold, taciturn stranger. He’ll never forget the sight of Mihawk, bleeding from his cheek and with eyes that spewed flames standing over his rival, looking every bit like he’s on the verge of collapse. Yet there he stands and as he looks up, his golden eyes meet this scrawny little cabin boy who’s watching from the railing, eyes blown wide as he feels his heart leap to his mouth for the first time.

It’s been almost thirty years and they’re laying on the same bed, sharing a heartbeat. Shanks caresses the tender skin on the nape of Mihawk’s neck, hearing him drift to sleep. He smiles absently and follows soon after. 

* * *

The room’s bathroom is small but it’s adequately lit and it has running water. Daylight pours through the lone window, illuminating the entire space. Mihawk stands before the mirror, studying himself, unable to believe what he’s seeing. He looks mauled, fresh out of a fight with a forest beast or a Sea King. He knew his wrists would be bruised but he didn’t expect them to be so purple. That’s not even half of it. His neck and torso are covered with bites and hickeys, barely leaving a speckle of skin clear. The marks continue further down, reaching his thighs. He stares at his reflection, at a complete loss for words. This can be covered up quite easily but for a man who views shirts as an unnecessary hassle, this is a problem.

The door opens and Shanks strolls inside, whistling a cheery tune. “Hawkeyes!” he calls. “You in the bathroom?”

Through the mirror, Mihawk sees him walk into the bathroom. Shanks stops dead in his tracks, surprised by what awaits him. The grin that spreads on his face is enough to make a vein on Mihawk’s neck pop.

“Good morning,” he mumbles. Before Mihawk can blink, Shanks’ cape is on the floor and he’s trying to juggle himself out of his shirt. 

“You shameless dog!” Mihawk accuses, pushing Shanks away before he can get too close. Just the sight of him is annoying. “I remember asking you to control yourself numerous times!”

Shanks listens carefully, already trying to figure out what to say and how. Emotions other than disdain and exasperation are an extremely rare treat, even for his lover of twenty years. Sometimes, when Mihawk feels more like a glacier than he usually is, Shanks is willing to work with anything, even anger. Today is one of those days. 

Yes, he knows Mihawk hates marks but he can’t help himself.

“I missed you, I couldn't help myself and I enjoy fucking with you because you’re cute when you’re frustrated,” is what Shanks would have said if he wasn’t being glared to death.

Mihawk scoffs and pushes past him, marching into the room. Although the sight of his naked lover is very distracting, Shanks clicks into motion when he sees Mihawk reaching for his clothes.

“Aren’t we going to have breakfast together?” He receives a venomous look instead of an answer. “Look… I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Okay, I’m not.” Not helping. Hastily, Shanks removes his shirt and tosses it to Mihawk. “You can wear this.”

Mihawk catches the shirt in the air. It’s clean, probably new, bearing the all-too-familiar scent of booze and sea salt. 

“Can we eat breakfast now?”

“This isn’t just about clothes,” Mihawk snaps. He puts the shirt on and it stops in the middle of his thighs. He always preferred tighter clothing, could never understand Shanks’ obsession with puffy shirts and plunging necklines. 

“But?”

“It’s about discipline.”

“Ah.” Shanks is unable to hide his devilish smirk as he sits down on the table. Mihawk in his shirt is simply irresistible and seeing him so finicky makes things even better. 

Mihawk stands right in front of him, glowering down at him. He grabs Shanks’ face, forcing him to look up. “I’m serious,” he hisses.

“I know you are. You’re always serious.” He’s pushing his luck, literally putting his neck on the line. But yes, he’s shameless and he can’t behave himself. His arm snakes up Mihawk’s leg, climbing further up and squeezing a fistful of his ass. “Maybe that’s your problem, Hawkeyes. You’re too serious.”

“You know what your problem is?”

“Do tell.”

“You never know when to shut the fuck up.” Shanks snorts. Mihawk’s ability to say the darndest things with a straight face always leaves him in awe. It’s one of his most charming qualities. 

Shanks leans back on his chair, slumping his arm back. This sounds like the beginning of a lesson. He can hear Mihawk going about the room somewhere behind him but he doesn’t look, wanting to keep the mystery aflame. When Mihawk returns, still a vision in Shanks’ shirt, he’s holding last night’s rope in his hands. A shiver runs down Shanks’ spine, reaching the very pit of his stomach.

“Put your arm behind you,” Mihawk dictates.

“Isn’t this a lesson? I thought teachers were supposed to be more...conciliatory.”

Mihawk snorts at the choice of word. “Conciliatory,” he murmurs. “Did Beckman teach you that one?”

Shanks gasps, feigning hurt. “Are you implying I’m incapable of learning new words by myself?”

Mihawk crouches behind him, tying his wrist to the chair, making sure it’s not going anywhere. To his delight, he realizes that Mihawk is also tying each of his ankles, rendering him completely immobile. He stands back up and walks in front of Shanks, studying his image with his perpetually curious gaze.

“I’m stating it.”

Shanks barks out a laugh. “Some teacher you are,” he remarks. He tests his bonds. Mihawk did a fine knot. The tender skin on Shanks’ wrist and ankles rubs uncomfortable against the rough rope. Some Haki will work, he estimates, but the stabbing glare he receives as he dares form that thought stops him in his tracks. “Is this why that poor Roronoa kid is so terrified of you?”

Mihawk huffs. It’s a little sound, the kind he makes when he doesn’t want to laugh. Shanks searches Mihawk’s eyes for a reply but the swordsman swiftly averts his gaze, busying himself with something else. He heads into the bathroom, staying out of the redhead’s line of sight.

“You don’t like talking about your little student?” He gets nothing back. It’s common, he’s used to it, but at the moment he feels extremely frustrated. He leans forward, trying to catch a glimpse of the other man. “Hawkeyes?”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Red,” is the nonchalant comment Mihawk offers.

Shanks sits up straight, pursing his lips. “‘m not jealous,” he snorts. A man as confident as him is never jealous. Still, Zoro is twenty years old and in a single year, he has spent more time with Mihawk than Shanks did in twenty. Worst of all, he listens and rarely argues back, only ever does so for a second. He complies and offers himself to Mihawk the way Shanks never did, never was asked to. Perhaps that’s what Mihawk likes about Shanks the most; his ability to fight back on equal footing.

Mihawk emerges from the bathroom, only this time he’s holding shaving foam and a brush in one hand, a razor blade in the other. Ah, yes. Shanks should have seen this one coming. His needle-sharp stubble and Mihawk’s paper-white skin had never been a good match. “Go shave” was usually the first thing Mihawk said after they kissed, to which Shanks usually replied with a noncommital shrug. Conflict was the basis of their relationship and such nonsensical, ‘old-married-couple’ arguments sort of filled the void his left arm had left.

“If you shave my face,” Shanks begins warningly. “I’ll look 15. They’re gonna put you in jail.”

Mihawk shrugs. “I have amnesty.” He approaches Shanks and sets everything on the table next to them. He stays still, studying the tied up redhead. “For your safety, I suggest you hold still and keep your mouth shut.”

“Yes, sir,” he grins. He’s too giddy for his own good. Mihawk takes note of this, frowning but still reluctantly accepting. In any other situation, Shanks would have been eager to tease but he has been instructed to keep his mouth shut. For his safety.

Mihawk grabs him by the hair, forcing him to arch his neck back. He murmurs something disapprovingly before reaching for the foam and brush. He’s gentle but Shanks has known him for far too long to be surprised. Mihawk lathers his neck in foam, making sure to get every sneaky little crevice. As instructed, Shanks is sitting perfectly still, letting the other man do what he wants. So far, this feels like a treat rather than a punishment. Sure, he’s itching to get his hand on his lover but the way Mihawk is leaning over him, naked, marked chest almost completely exposed isn’t too bad, either.

Once done, Mihawk leaves the brush on the table and reaches for the blade. He walks behind Shanks, holding him by the underside of his chin, forcing his head backward. His moves are careful, calculated. Slowly and steadily he drags his hand from the base of Shanks’ neck and up, while his other remains tight against the redhead’s pulse. A strong thumb digs into the skin of his throat, drawing a little gasp from him. He groans and shifts, looking up for Mihawk’s gaze. 

“Hey, on second thought, why don’t you make us match? I think the little number you got going on would look great on me, dontcha think?”

Mihawk grips his throat tighter, pressing the blade down harder. A breath hitches in Shanks’ neck, never reaching his lips. It’s pure insanity, the more rational part in his brain argues, usually in the voice of his first mate. But that’s what makes it all so exhilarating. The World’s Strongest Swordsman has him tied on the chair and has a razor pressed against his neck. Yet every drop of blood in Shanks’ system has gone south, leaving his head completely light and making his cock throb and ache in the confines of his loose trousers. He must have thrust his hips at some point, because Mihawk’s gaze flicks down momentarily, finding the tent underneath the layer of fabric. He huffs and the edge of his lips curls up ever so faintly. 

“You’re shameless, Red.”

“I’m aware,” Shanks murmurs, completely enamored. “Is there a problem with expressing my desire for you? You’re the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” He licks his lips, once again shifting his hips up. “Unless you’re offended by it-ow!”

“Oops,” Mihawk offers through a smirk. “My hand slipped.”

Shanks opens his mouth to quip back something clever but all that comes out is a strained whine as Mihawk drags his thumb along the little wound he created, collecting the crimson drops of blood and shoving it in his mouth. Shanks’ jaw drops a little. Mihawk is so casual about it, though the glint in his golden eyes is hard to miss.

The only sound in the room is the light _clank_ the blade makes as Mihawk drops it on the table. The mere seconds it takes for him to stand in front of Shanks feel like hours. Every step is drawn out, too slow, too much. When he finally stops, he leans in to inspect his handiwork. He hums, pleased.

“Haw-”

The sound dies on Shanks’ lips as Mihawk’s mouth finds the little cut. He drags his tongue along the thin trail of blood, stopping to suck on the spot below his lover’s ear. Shanks squirms, throwing his head back to leave the swordsman more room to explore. Mihawk’s hand finds the bulge between the redhead’s legs and he _rubs_ firmly, making Shanks growl deep in his gut.

“Hawkeyes,” he moans, bucking into his hand with need. 

The absolutely filthy sound Mihawk’s lips make as they suck kisses on Shanks’ body fills the room. He grazes his teeth as he moves lower while his hand keeps on moving, bringing Shanks too close to the brink. After all these years, he’s learned to decipher the tell-tale signs of Shanks’ body. It helps that the redhead is a vocal lover, moaning shamelessly as Mihawk keeps on stroking.

“Hawkeyes,” he pants, desperate, squirming against his bonds. 

Mihawk pulls his hand back, leaving Shanks to gasp. It takes him a moment to come back to reality. Before he can fully grasp what’s going on, Mihawk is kneeling between his parted knees, working on his sash and trousers. 

“Fuck yes,” he hisses, thrusting his hips from a reflex. 

But Mihawk stops him before he can get too excited. The threat is still there; use Haki and lose your other arm. The temptation to provoke is there, within Shanks’ grasp but he holds himself down.

His cock springs out and Mihawk pushes his knees further apart, getting closer. His mouth is hovering mere inches over the leaking head, his breath is hot, wet, torture in its purest form. Shanks has to use every bit of willpower he has not to cum when Mihawk spits down on his cock. It’s always such a fucking _treat_ when he does shameless things so casually, like it’s a second nature to him. Breathing, fighting, fucking. Shanks revels in this, being the only one to know something like this that feels almost sacred. 

Shanks can’t look away from those eyes of molten gold as Mihawk lowers his mouth on his erection, taking him in to the last inch until his nose finds skin. He lets his jaw fall, panting heavily and pulling against his bonds. The tip of his cock is grazing the back of Mihawk’s throat. Slowly, Mihawk begins to pull back. Base to head, he kisses along the shaft, using his tongue to collect the drops of precum. His every move is deliberately drawn out, as if to mock Shanks, dare him to try anything. As he’s bobbing his head in a steady rhythm, Shanks realizes that the fucker is _smiling_. It’s too smug and self-satisfied, downright infuriating. But it’s hot, God it’s hotter than hell and Shanks can only moan his lover’s name as that devilish tongue swirls around his entire length.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs, dazed. “Mihawk…”

He’s going to cum, he feels it bubbling in his gut. But each time, Mihawk pulls back, alternating the sucking with bites on the inside of Shanks’ thigh. 

“Fuuuuck,” Shanks groans. His entire body is slick with sweat, his pulse is on fire. “Can you hurry up already?” 

He’s whining and he knows it, acting like a damn child. Mihawk stands up and with the blink of an eye, his hand, tar-black and tight like a claw, is on Shanks’ throat, cutting his breath short. 

“Does it seem to you like we’re on equal footing?” His voice is low, the threatening hiss of a snake about to bite. He squeezes harder, feeling Shanks’ pulse quicken under his fingertips, feeling his cock twitch and burn against his thigh. 

His grip loosens a little and Shanks inhales greedily. “Will you please make me cum, oh your Excellency, sir royal Warlord?”

Mihawk snorts. He retracts his Haki, joining his lover in laughter. “Bet Doflamingo makes people call him that during sex.” He kneels back down, taking Shanks’ neglected cock into his hand. “But yes, I will grant you your wish, since you asked so nicely.”

He’s moving faster this time, thank fuck, because even one second more and Shanks is going to explode. When he finally - finally - gets to cum, he does so in Mihawk’s mouth, feeling his warm throat convulse around his cock, swallowing him to the last drop. The first few seconds, his brain is just white noise, hazy buzzing with no coordination. He’s panting, gasping for air as he falls back on his chair, looking down at the swordsman. Mihawk opens his mouth and his tongue rolls out, covered in Shanks’ semen. He makes a show out of swallowing, not once looking away from his lover’s eyes. He sighs, resting his head against the other man’s leg.

They share the silence, breathing in one exhausted unison. Mihawk stands back up, kogatana in hand, and goes to undo Shanks’ bonds. Shanks sighs with profound relief as his limbs are freed. Though a bit numb, his hand finds the energy to tug Mihawk’s shirt - his shirt - and he pulls the other man on his lap. Mihawk offers no resistance, accepting the embrace as he cards his fingers through the crimson locks. 

Twenty years ago - or even ten - they would have been back at it in a matter of seconds. Times have changed but the pleasure of sitting together in serenity, sharing the same breath is even greater.

Shanks nuzzles Mihawk’s neck, kissing one of last night’s marks. “What do old people do after sex?”

“How should I know? You’re the senior citizen.”

Shanks snorts. Under his lips, he can feel laughter bubble in Mihawk’s throat. “Asshole,” he mumbles affectionately. “Breakfast?”

“I already ate,” Mihawk reminds him, voice hushed and heavy against the shell of his ear, ending the sentence with a bite. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this hehe
> 
> If you like feel free to follow me on Twitter @_mollydewinter_ :D Always looking for more one piece moots


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